Rondo Meets Bambi

Last night my husband hit a deer. That's life in the fast lane in Iowa. It was bound to happen eventually, of course, but I didn't particularly care for the timing of it all. Not only was I in the hospital staying with a friend for the night, but Mark had all three girls with him, and he was driving my BRAND NEW CAR (a 2009 Denim Blue Kia Rondo) - the first brand new vehicle I've ever owned. Needless to say, the convergence of circumstance could have been better, but no one was hurt, which is all that really matters in the end. Well, that's not exactly true. I know for a fact that the deer was scared poopless, since the evidence of it was all over the driver's side door, but I'm guessing that she sustained other injuries as well. I'm still waiting for a call from her insurance company since she fled the scene

Or, perhaps she didn't flee the scene... Here's where the personality difference comes in. After ascertaining that everyone was fine, my first thought was to ask my husband to track down the deer. I can't help it. I am a scavenger by nature, and though I've never actually brought road kill home for supper, that's only because I couldn't verify that it was fresh enough. Mark, on the other hand, doesn't even care for the fact that he has to see the animals that he eats while still on the hoof (so to speak). He prefers his meat to come pre-cooked and wrapped in cellophane or a burger box. Thankfully, we've been married long enough that I've learned when to think out loud, and when to keep my mouth shut. The mental image of him on the side of the road, staring at our damaged car, checking the girls over, and clutching his cell phone to his ear, waiting for reassurance from his loving wife, helped me do the right thing. No amount of deer burger is worth my husband's sanity.

Had it been me, though, I know things would have gone differently. I would have waded through the ditch, field dressed the deer with my fingernail file kit, drug the carcass onto the roof rack (isn't that what they make roof racks for, after all?), and had the girls help me cut it, wrap it, and get it into the freezer before putting them to bed. After all - if psychiatrists say you can overcome your fears by facing the thing you've got a problem with, then butchering Bambi seems like the ideal way to get over the emotional trauma of having hit a deer, doesn't it? Sounds right to me.

In the end, I can see that I chose correctly when I kept my hunter-gatherer instincts to myself. I really don't have time to process a deer right now, and don't need to be jumping in over my head on yet another project with a pressing deadline. A few deer roast would have been nice, but a hassle-free weekend with my family sounds even better. Since my girls didn't get the chance to have some 'do-it-yourself' therapy, perhaps it's best if we don't have any reminders of the incident hanging around. Besides, I drove by this morning and checked the ditch. Bambi was gone, and so my roadkill record remains clean (for now).